


Star Student

by SailorFish



Series: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Trollmarket [1]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Family Feels, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, They have a complicated relationship alright?, but mainly fluff, knife family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: Like most teachers, Strickler has a favourite student. Unlike most teachers, his relationship with that student is… complex.A series of drabbles exploring their relationship throughout the show (and Strickler’s motivations more generally), inspired by the question I’ve seen floating around: “So whyisJim Strickler’s fave?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got crazy into Trollhunters last week and developed a really fond spot for the kind-of dad/son, kind-of mentor/mentee, kind-of we-wanna-kill-each-other relationship between Strickler and Jim. So... ta-da! Newbie to the fandom, so please tell me what you think. :)

1.

Strickler surveyed the new class of freshmen thoughtfully. As always, most would just be average, leaving neither an overly positive or negative impression. Some would be terrible, a few would be brilliant, and just a couple…

His ‘little cousins’ he called them, in the privacy of his own head.

It wasn’t something he’d ever say aloud, definitely not to any Gumm-Gumm, nor even to any other Changeling. If it got out he had a soft spot for _any_ human whelps, the consequences could quite literally be deadly. And yet, he was afraid it was obvious. Why else would he take the position of lowly, underpaid school teacher? He was one of the leaders of the Janus Order; while it was certainly useful to have an “in” with so many families, Stricklander could have always delegated the job to a minion.

But here he was, grading papers and planning lessons. All because of his… hobby. An unlikely, shameful, but ultimately harmless hobby, he reasoned. To be fair, it was probably because it was this exact combination of unlikely, shameful, and harmless that the other trolls had never considered it his motivation for staying in the school.

See, sometimes, a child would flinch just the slightest bit when he handed them a new assignment. Sometimes, a child would be just the slightest bit over-eager to please. Sometimes, a child would jerk their chin up and square their shoulders in a way that spoke just the slightest bit more more to wariness than teenage posturing.

And Strickler would think about how his brothers and sisters cowered just the slightest bit before any _'pure'_  troll and suppress the urge to growl. He'd keep an eye on these little cousins. He’d offer a friendly hand or ear whenever they needed one. Once or twice, he’d even given a little… extra help, in dark alleyways, when he felt it was truly necessary.

They didn't always need it. Take Steve Palchuk for example. It had been a month since term started and Strickler had already heard multiple complaints about him in the teacher’s lounge. He was aggressive towards the other children, he was just skirting utter disrespect towards the teachers. Mrs Palchuk was a friend of Lawrence’s sister, and the coach was worried that Steve’s behaviour had something to do with his father’s.

Strickler wasn’t worried. Steve’s reactions were exactly the sort that would have gotten him to the top of the food chain if he were a Changeling. And Strickler had been around humans long enough to know that, despite all those pamphlets he now got about How To Notice Anti-Social Behaviour! and declarations that It Won’t Happen Here!, Steve would rise just as quickly in a human high school. At least “food chain” wasn’t quite as literal here. No, Steve would do just fine.

James “Just Jim!” Lake Jr, on the other hand, was a pleaser. Not the smartest, not the most hard-working. But the one that the teachers knew anyway: the one who'd clean the whiteboard without being asked, the one who'd bring the extra cupcakes to the school bakesale, the one who'd try to fix a random kid's bike, because it would never occur to him not to. In short, the one who was _nice_.

It set Strickler's fangs on edge.

Naturally, the other teachers saw it the other way around: they'd rather curb Steve aggression and encourage Jim’s kindness. His colleagues were fools. A _bit_ of pleasing wasn't bad — Strickler wouldn't have gotten where he was without being able to crawl for his “betters” when necessary. But you weren't supposed to _mean_ _it!_ Just one look into Jim's honest, tentatively smiling face and he knew Jim meant it.

By now, he’d scoped out the boy’s home situation. It wasn’t pressing enough to get involved directly. A father who’d walked out on them, an extremely overworked but seemingly caring mother. Jim was a kind boy who’d been forced by circumstances to grow up far faster than this gentler time and place usually demanded. But he wasn’t being abused or mistreated at home.

So Strickler had time. Four years to harden Jim’s heart through useful advice before the world hardened it through pain. Four years to teach him to be more selfish. Four years to get him to stop looking at Strickler with those blue eyes that made him so uneasy. He had time enough not to force the issue, to frame his harsh lessons to fit in with the morals of this kinder, gentler age.

It was just a hobby, really. A harmless hobby.

 

2.

Strickler was pacing back and forth in his office. He couldn’t seem to stop.

Jim Lake, their very own Young Atlas, was the new Trollhunter. A human Trollhunter. A Trollhunter whom he knew. A Trollhunter whose _weaknesses_ he knew… and whose strengths.

For a second, Strickler genuinely considered it.

Contrary to popular opinion, history was not just memorising dates and kings and who won which battle. All of that was important, of course. But there was a reason why, when Jim applied himself, he could get the A+ that the indomitable Claire Nuñez could not.

History was figuring out _why_. It was about rejecting the idea that history books can be written only by the victor. It was about asking what motivated Caesar to cross the Rubicon and what motivated Brutus to betray him, what inspired the French people to execute their monarchs and what made them continue the bloodshed, and what actually caused the First World War — because it couldn’t just be one Archduke’s death, right? Jim excelled at such questions; for all that Strickler still wanted to shake the kindness out of him, it was that interest in understanding all sides of the conflict that made the boy his star student. Strickler had been looking forward to starting the Cold War with his class next year.

And so, for one second, Strickler considered it.

He could call Jim to his office tomorrow after school.

 _Ah, Young Atlas_ , he’d start. _A historical thought experiment for you. Say there are two sides who have been at war with each other for a long, long time. Oh, Sparta and Athens for example. But there is also a third faction in this fight_ — _Corinth. They’ve allied with Sparta because of… religious ties, but in fact they are held in contempt by it. Yet they cannot switch sides, because Athens despises and looks down on them just as much._

_But recently, the situation has changed. A new hero has emerged on the side of Athens, its very own Theseus if you will. Not having had the chance to learn the prejudices of either side yet, he might be able to help Corinth. Or he might reject their offer, rat them out to both Sparta and Athens as traitors, and destroy them. What would you suggest Corinth do? Is there any hope for them, Young… Theseus?_

Was that clear enough? Who was training the newest Trollhunter — Blinkous Galadrigal again? How much would Galadrigal have told him by now? Had _i_ _mpure_ become part of Jim’s vocabulary already?

Perhaps he should do away with the tricks instead. Transform, and throw himself and any willing siblings on the Trollhunter’s mercy.

On his _student’s_ mercy. Strickler’s stomach rebelled at the thought.

And Jim was 15. A child, in way over his head. Even if he didn’t spit _Impure!_ and summon Daylight immediately, what exactly could he do? The trolls would have difficulty accepting a human Trollhunter, Strickler had no doubt about that. Jim had zero political clout with Vendel and the rest; even if he wanted to help, he likely wouldn’t be able to.

The chance was small, too small to risk it. There were too many unpredictable variables here.

Strickler basically liked the Earth as it was. He liked warm showers, and audiobooks, and basking in the sunlight on his skin while drinking a coffee. He even liked grading term papers, occasionally. But he didn’t like it enough to risk all his other carefully planned opportunities on a million-to-one chance with a child.

No, he’d wait, like always. He’d continue helping Skullcrusher’s heir rebuild the Bridge. He’d see which way Young Atlas looked likely to jump. There was still enough time; Jim had no idea what his teacher was.

And he most certainly wouldn’t _beg._

 

3.

“Somebody else’s star student now, is he?” said Nomura with a nasty chuckle.

Strickler shot her a withering stare as he strolled past her. His arm was still in a sling from his last encounter with Daylight. He’d gotten the amulet, but he’d lost a bit more pride than he’d have really liked. And the upcoming meeting with Bular was giving him a headache preemptively.

She fell into step with him.

“Aww, Stricklander, are you upset he learned arm locks a lot faster than he ever learned all of Henry the VIII’s wives?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Strickler.

That was how it always was with his Changeling siblings: forever trying to get under each other’s skin. But memorisation skills had never been Jim Lake Jr’s strong suit anyway. Nomura was losing her touch.

“Ah, then you’re upset you weren’t the one to teach him the arm locks.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question.

Strickler stopped short. He glared into her unrepentant face.

“That is both ridiculous and _treason_ ,” he said flatly. “And if I find such lies on your tongue again, I will be forced to rip it out.”

Her smirk didn’t fade, but she stayed silent the rest of their walk through the museum.

Damn Nomura anyway.

 

4.

The groan Jim let out was pure teenage boy.

“Oh god, Mom, not _charades!_ ”

“Well what do you have in mind then, young man?”

Barbara crossed her arms and Strickler smirked as the look on Jim’s face. He was clearly struggling not to shout, _Dinner’s over, he should just leave!!_ Yes, these occasional dinners were a lovely idea. Jim could never concentrate properly the next day; his impotence must be galling. And as the sweet cherry on top, Barbara was, as always, a delight.

“What about _Who am I?_ ” said Jim after a moment. To his credit, his teeth were only slightly gritted.

Strickler’s smirk widened.

“Which one’s that again?” asked Barbara.

“Like in that Tarantino movie about Nazis, Mom. You write down a character on a post-it, pass it to the person to the left, and they stick it to their forehead. Then they have to guess who they are by asking yes-or-no questions, like, ‘Am I a total _piece of shit?_ ’”

The last was with a growl at Strickler.

“Jim!” Barbara snapped. “That’s — ”

“It’s quite alright, Barbara,” said Strickler. “I let the students play it in history class as a revision tool every once in a while. I pick the names and then they play in small groups. It’s generally about as much work as they’re up to right before the winter holidays, I’m afraid.” He should _not_ be feeling that warm at Barbara’s quick, conspiratorial grin. “It’s astounding how often ‘Am I a total piece of shit?’ helps you narrow your choices down.”

“Alright,” Barbara decided. “Let’s try it. Just don’t go too history nerd on me, you two, okay?”

Strickler reassured her that the characters didn’t have to be historical, and she excused herself to find some sticky notes and pens. That left him and Jim alone. Predictably, the boy leaned forward to glare harder.

“What are you even doing here, Strickler?”

It was really too easy.

“Perhaps I’m distracting you while Angor Rot deals with one of your friends,” he drawled and took another sip of tea. Jim's cheek twitched in response. “Or perhaps I just enjoy spending time with your mother.”

“That’s even worse,” Jim muttered.

“Your priorities are fascinating, Young Atlas.”

Jim looked away sharply. What was… Oh yes. The first time he’d dubbed Jim ‘Atlas’ was during such a game. He did that sometimes, making the characters he gave his students fit them in some way. A warning, an encouragement, or just a hidden joke. They’d just been finishing their unit on Ancient Greece. He’d given Toby Domzalski ‘Patroclus’ because the boy had seemed down that week (and because he’d texted all through the lesson on Troy and needed the revision) and then decided on ‘Atlas’ for Jim. It had stuck. Now Strickler looked away too. He didn’t want to examine why the tea in his mouth suddenly tasted bitter.

It was a relief when Barbara came back.

“I’ve got one for _Walter_ ,” said Jim immediately.

Oh? Well alright then.

“Then Walter can make one for me and I’ll make one for you,” agreed Barbara cheerfully.

Strickler eyed Jim’s smug little grin. He very seriously contemplated writing down ‘Helen of Troy’. Then he decided he should wait at least till round 2 before he made Jim’s head explode. ‘Marie Curie’ it was.

“Why don’t you start?” suggested Jim. “To show Mom how it works.”

Triumph in the Trollhunter’s eyes looked a lot less threatening when a messily scrawled 'Harry Potter’ hung right over them. He was still such a child. A monstrously powerful child who had taken out Bular, yes, but ultimately a child. How could he have contemplated putting his siblings’ lives — his _own_ life — in those small hands for even a moment?

“Well, let’s see then,” Strickler began. “Am I, as Jim so eloquently put it, a piece of shit?”

Barbara chuckled and nodded.

Jim smirked, but then hesitated. Grudgingly, as though he’d forgotten about this part, he said, “It depends on who you ask.”

And there it was, ladies and gentlemen, the reason Jim was his favourite student. IRL, as the kids put it. Strickler had to tamp down on the unexpected, familiar surge of fondness.

“A complicated character,” he mused.

“Hey, you two are the history buffs,” said Barbara with a shrug. “If Jim says — whoops!”

Adorably, she actually clapped her hands over her mouth. Strickler very much wanted to take one of them and kiss its knuckles. But he wasn’t sure whether the impulse came from the desire to annoy the Trollhunter or… something else. No, that way led a dangerous path.

“A complicated _historical_ personnage then.”

Both mother and son nodded, Barbara looking chagrined.

A character from history, one history viewed with some complexity. At the same time, one that Jim clearly wanted to use as a dig against him. One that was likely inspired by the memory of the first time they’d played this game. A cruel teacher, perhaps? No, wait…

“Am I a traitor?” Strickler asked, highly amused.

“You are,” confirmed Jim, lifting his chin. Not so eager to please anymore.

“Hm, a historical traitor… Well, Judas Iscariot is a classic, but I think you’d have hesitated more over confirming him as a historical character. Vidkun Quisling is another possibility, but you haven’t gone over World War II yet and I know you’ve been unfortunately too… _busy_ for extra-curricular reading this year.” Jim flushed, but not with anger. As though Strickler was still a beloved teacher he was ashamed to disappoint. “You’re doing the American Revolution right now, so Benedict Arnold should be the obvious conclusion. But I’m afraid Coach Lawrence has been filling in since my promotion and he, ah, prefers the basics. No, it’ll have to be another classic. _‘Et tu, Brute?’_ ”

He swept the little paper off his forehead with a flourish. It did, indeed, read ‘BRUTUS’ in dark, angry letters. Strickler stared at it. So. How much affection did ‘Caesar’ still have for the dear friend who stabbed him through the heart? If Caesar had been able to grab a sword and defend himself, would he have hesitated at all? If Brutus had been able to explain just how threatening Caesar’s ambitions were to those around him, would the Ides of March have — _no_.

More importantly, Caesar had supposedly covered his face when seeing Brutus among his murderers; could Brutus use that flinch if necessary? Not that it should be necessary, but being a Changeling caused one to plan for all eventualities.

“Well done, Walter!” Barbara cheered, interrupting his thoughts. “You too, Jim. See, you two do work well together when you try!”

“Ah, yes,” said Strickler, finally breaking out of his daze.

He found Jim peering at him intently. The boy looked away quickly. No, he was over-analysing this. Jim just wanted to annoy him, that was all. He was letting his own lingering affection cloud his thoughts. (In his darkest moments, he admitted to himself the other reason he’d delegated the dirty work to Angor Rot. He really was disgustingly weak.)

And he was just here to taunt the Trollhunter as well.

For the next round, Barbara suggested they switch who they write the cards for. This time, Strickler didn’t resist his immediate, petty impulse. ‘OEDIPUS’ read the neat sticky note.

The Trollhunter’s outraged squawk was immensely satisfying.

 

5.

“Impure,” growled the son of Kanjigar and spat on the floor.

Strickler lifted one eyebrow. His hands were full with several coils of rope. His hands were also full with treading a fine line between confident enough to appear useful and pugnacious enough to be tied up again. Both meant he probably shouldn't attack.

Although, standing as they were in the Lakes’ living room, he undoubtedly had the advantage of maneuverability.

No, he really shouldn't. His time has finally run out. He'd thrown himself on the mercy of the Trollhunter. That binding spell was the one of the most brilliant ideas he'd ever had — Jim had been forced to listen to him. He was in over his head, maybe, but he wasn't out for the count either. Strickler was going to be useful, competent, and clever, and figure out how to strike a deal with the boy. He still has his ace after all.

That meant he was  _not_ going to beg (more than he already had).

That also meant no attacking the Trollhunter's companions.

“Troll,” Strickler replied evenly.

On the other hand, _he wasn't going to beg_.

He spat on the floor as well.

Draal growled, a rumble deep in his throat. The sound reminded Strickler of Bular; he straightened his already straight spine.

“You don't fool me, Changeling,” he began, advancing over the carpeted floor. He loomed over Strickler in his human form and bent down to bring their faces close together. Stricklander’s eyes began to glow; he braced himself. “If you even _breathe_ suspiciously, I'm gonna — ”

His threat was interrupted by the sound of running feet.

Jim skidded into the doorway, a pile of crystals still in his arms.

“What in the world…”

His sharp blue eyes took in the scene quickly. He looked frazzled and exasperated. Not an uncommon look for Young Atlas. The two trolls sprang apart and Strickler wiped the guilty look off his face. He had _not_ done anything wrong.

“What were you two doing?!” snapped Jim. “I heard spitting. Did you _spit_ on the carpet?”

Alright, maybe he’d done something wrong.

“Yuck, not cool, guys! Especially you, Mr. I-Don’t-Eat-Socks.” Draal sniggered and Jim whirled on him. “Or you! You actually live in this house, Draal. Come on man, not cool.”

The troll stopped sniggering and said, “The Impure was giving me lip.”

 _Excuse me?!_ If you squinted and looked sideways, you could maybe argue that Strickler was now under the Trollhunter’s command — though he was planning to even out their situation as soon as possible. He absolutely wasn’t under the command of Kanjigar’s _whelp_. Strickler’s lips curled into a sneer. Too bad this form’s canines weren’t as impressive as his other’s.

“And stop that too,” added Jim firmly.

“Stop… what?” asked Draal and Strickler together.

Was he about to get reprimanded for _scowling?_ That was going a tad too far, Trollhunter or not.

“Calling him Impure! It’s a racist slur, right?”

Oh.

What the…

Abruptly, there wasn’t enough air to breathe. Strickler shot a fleeting glance up at Draal. He wondered how closely his expression mirrored the troll’s totally dumbfounded one.

To be completely honest, no one but other Changelings had ever cared before.

He'd never expected them to.

Except of course, if there was one person who _would_ care, even after months of Galadrigal’s bluster filling his ears, it would be the boy who’d been star student. And Strickler suddenly realised two things.

One, he was a horrible teacher. All those attempts to teach Jim to _care a little less_ had fallen on deaf ears. The proof was right before his eyes, glaring stubbornly at a troll twice his size, whose moniker was ‘the Deadly’.

Two, he should have followed his first impulses. After all he had done, Jim was still willing to stick up for him. If he had gone to the boy immediately…

_Is there any hope left for us, young Theseus, slayer of half-breed monsters?_

Oh Pale Lady, he really was a fool.

Meanwhile, Draal gave an awkward chuckle.

“What does it matter? I’m sure he’s been called worse.”

He had, indeed, technically been called far worse. But the sheer ubiquity of the term, the only thing that seemed to unite both Trollmarket and Gumm-Gumms, had always made it sting worse than ‘dog’.

“I don’t care,” said Jim. “It’s like something a Death Eater would say.”

“An… eater of… death?”

Strickler, who had spent a lot more time around teenagers than Draal, blinked at Jim. But no, there was not a hint of mockery on the boy. He crossed his arms and held his ground. When he stood like that, there was so much Barbara in him. Perhaps there was something of his father as well, but Strickler couldn't see it. Just her. Draal looked away first.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “We don’t have time for this anyway.”

“Good!” said the boy. “And _no spitting!_ ”

He hurried back out of the living room without another glance at his erstwhile teacher. He wasn't doing it for Strickler. He was doing it because it was the right thing to do. His ears burned just the slightest bit red.

Strickler watched him go and cursed himself once again.


	2. Chapter 2

6.

So.

He wasn’t going to beg, was he?

Strickler was currently quite literally _on his knees_.

The troll guards had dumped him on the cold stone floor and growled whenever he attempted to get up. Their roughness suggested they didn’t think the Trollhunter would mind his mother having a few extra bruises, as long as he got a humbled Strickler out of it.

He stayed in his human form, in case that made them remember he was _trying_ to be on Jim’s side now. It didn’t seem to have much of an impact. He’d always thought being in Trollmarket would be some kind of glorious revelation, unimaginable sights and feelings. It was disappointing to learn that what it really wasn’t that different from his pre-Familiar days in the Darklands. Cowering was basically the same everywhere.

Except this time, he still had his ace.

He’d see how far he could get with Jim by playing the pathetic and repentful card. Then, when the boy renounced his protection — no, _if_ he renounced his protection. Strickler had turned out to be a bad teacher, but he had always been a good student. And this past day with Jim had taught him a lot.

(For one, it had taught him that _pathetic and repentful_ was a little too close to the truth to be rightfully called ‘playing’.)

But even _if_ Jim’s protection stayed, that meant little when he was in the very heart of Trollmarket. Dictatious Galadrigal’s cruelty was famous in the Darklands. With trolls, such things generally ran in the family.

So.

One. There was no way he wasn’t going to complete the spell, regardless of any threats or promises. It was was for _Barbara_. Her pale face and limp body flashed before his eyes every time he blinked. That was bad.

Two. Jim might or might not refuse him if he just plain explained his predicament. Strickler was honestly in too deep to calculate his chances. Jim had a new teacher now. That was… neither good nor bad. Indeterminable.

Three. Strickler possessed the goddamn Eye of Gunmar. It was the ultimate bargaining chip. He steeled himself not to let go of it under any sort of torture. No Galadrigal, no Vendel, he’d make the deal with the Trollhunter only. With an ace like that, even the trolls might keep their bargains; Jim definitely would. And that, that was _good_.

Yes, Strickler could do this. He would do this.

He bowed his head at the sound of metal footsteps coming closer.

(Barbara despised him. Barbara was glad to forget him. For Changelings, Trollmarket could only bring despair.)

(Jim didn't make him beg. Jim kept his promise. But there _were_ revelations to be found here too.)

 

7.

“You might have a concussion.”

They really should continue training — Gunmar was out and _Jim wasn’t ready_. At the same time, training with a possible concussion could prove both useless and dangerous. Strickler prided himself on his efficiency. Sometimes, that meant knowing when to take a break.

“And I almost broke your arm,” Jim snapped back.

Strickler was glad he was back in his human form again. His first instinctual reaction was a lot less clear than as a troll. And it was good Nomura wasn’t here today. (“Cleaning up some Janus Order business, you don’t wanna know.”) She could read him a lot better than the boy could and would have laughed herself sick. He raised one eyebrow instead.

“It wasn’t a criticism,” he said mildly. “It was a prelude to the question, ‘Is there anybody at home who can make sure you don’t fall asleep?’”

Jim rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. They’d only been training for a few days now. A raw edge between them, a measure of uncertainty, was only to be expected. This training ground was a cold, damp place. They were no longer in that sunny classroom where Strickler would occasionally display a quiet concern. Too many things had happened since then.

No, that made it seem like it could just be water under the bridge, like what happened was just chance. _Strickler_ has done too many awful things for them to go back to that classroom. He was done with running from the facts.

“I think Mom said that falling asleep thing is actually a myth,” said Jim.

Strickler ignored the pang at the mention of Barbara. He crossed his arms.

“‘I think’ is not particularly reassuring in this context.”

The boy shrugged. His armour vanished and he puttered around as he spoke, putting away the few things he’d taken to training into a gym bag. He didn’t meet Strickler’s gaze.

“Well, there’s no one at home, okay? Mom’s at work ‘till ten, Draal’s still brainwashed, AAARRRGGHH!!!’s still spying and Blinky has Trollmarket business, Nomura’s off being terrifying, Claire’s at her cousin’s quinceañera, and Toby’s helping his grandma out around the house today so he’s only free after dinner. I’ll just… I dunno.” He waved an arm vaguely. “Set alarm clocks?”

Young Atlas indeed.

“You didn’t mention me,” Strickler pointed out quietly.

Jim went rigid. His back was turned to Strickler — stiff, awkward, shoulders hunched forward. (At least he was willing to turn his back now; that was progress, surely.) The boy gave an uncomfortable laugh.

“So you’ll what, rub my back while I vomit?”

“And then steal the neighbours’ car to drive you to the hospital, and run every red light on the way,” Strickler agreed solemnly.

Jim whirled around. His eyes were wide. He looked like he didn’t know whether the Changeling was joking or not. To be honest, neither did Strickler. For a moment, they stood poised and Strickler had no idea which way the boy would jump. He braced himself in case Daylight reappeared in the Trollhunter’s hands.

Instead Jim laughed again.

“I don’t believe this,” he muttered, then said louder, “Okay then, Nurse Strickler it is.”

And that was how Strickler ended up in the Trollhunter’s living room, sitting on the couch and stirring a cup of coffee while Jim absentmindedly turned on the TV. The scent of Barbara filled the house, inescapable. Strickler grit his teeth and stirred the coffee harder. He tried to concentrate only on its bitter odour.

“ _On the clearest of nights, when the winds of the Etherium were calm and peaceful_ — ”

Jim yelped.

“Whoa!” He scrambled for the DVD remote and paused the movie. “That’s, uh. We did a Disney marathon last night but Toby thinks _Treasure Planet_ ’s boring so I was gonna watch it myself today but then you called about training and…” He trailed off and stared at Strickler defiantly. He was flushed beet red. “It was my favourite as a kid, okay?”

Strickler found himself staring right back, albeit in puzzlement on his side.

“I've never seen it,” he said out of lack of anything better.

“Oh,” said Jim. He deflated a bit. “I guess that makes sense. Not much Disney around when you, uh, crossed over?”

Stricklander had left the Darklands long before the invention of moving pictures. Besides, little Waltolomew Strickler’s life had been more on what would now be called the ‘child labour’ side of things. Those were not memories he wanted to consider at the moment.

“Should we put it on then?” he asked smoothly instead.

“Seriously?”

“I believe you're supposed to take it easy after a head wound. A children's cartoon sounds like it would fit.”

“‘I believe’ is not very reassuring in this context,” Jim mocked, a broad smirk on his face. “You sure you’re up to babysitting a guy with a maybe-concussion? What do you Changelings do when you’re hurt?”

“Keep running for another three days until your enemy’s lost your trail, usually. And make up a reason to put on a documentary in class so the students don’t catch you limping,” Strickler added drily.

Jim gaped at him for a second, then suddenly burst out laughing.

“So last year, that week in May..?”

“A nasty bit of Janus Order business,” Strickler confirmed. “Finding that many films about the German Peasants’ Revolt was _not_ easy.”

“We thought you’d gone crazy!” Jim laughed harder. With a truly awful attempt at a BBC accent, he declared, “‘ _But Martin Luther… sided with… the nobility!_ ’” Then, abruptly, he clutched at his head and groaned. “Ow! Okay, too much laughing hurts.”

But a grin still shone on his face. Strickler felt his lips curl up the corners in reply. They _had_ been terrible documentaries. And for once, the stiffness between him and the Trollhunter had receded. That was important: he needed Jim to trust him if he wanted any of his lessons to sink in.

(And seeing as how he had promised to be honest with himself, if not with anybody else: yes, he was glad that the room felt warmer, sunnier all of a sudden. Not for some large overarching goal. For himself.)

He wasn’t a double agent anymore; perhaps something of his feelings showed on his face. For trust to grow, one side had to plant a seed first.

“Okay,” decided Jim finally. “I’ll put on some popcorn and start the movie. But if you make fun of me after, Strickler, I swear I’ll, uh…” he trailed off, then rallied. “I’ll tell my mom school gossip just informed me you ran off to be a juggler.”

“A juggler.”

“Yeah, a juggler! With swords and stuff.”

They shook on it.

And that was how Strickler ended up watching an extremely illuminating cartoon film about a boy whose father left when he was young, who wanted to take care of his mother, and who ended up bonding with an extremely morally dubious surrogate father figure. The boy was even _named_ Jim too.

It was just a little too on the nose, wasn’t it?

No wonder Jim had been embarrassed when it started playing. No wonder watching a children's cartoon felt like edging out onto a tightrope together. Strickler felt no desire to mock him for it. No, he wanted to… he wanted to… He had no idea what he wanted. The previous tense, miserable feeling between them was creeping in again.

“So, what do you think?” Jim asked, carefully casual, as the credits started rolling.

 _I think that you’ve chosen a terrible role model. I think that I don’t want you to just defeat Gunmar, I want you to also survive defeating him. I think that if I want to see the light shining off_ your _sails, Young Atlas, we’re going to have to greatly up your training regimen._

“I now understand why Barbara didn’t want you to have a scooter,” replied Strickler in the same tone.

Jim huffed a laugh at his words. But he wouldn't meet the Changeling's eyes; instead he busied himself with the DVD player.

“And Young Atlas,” added Strickler abruptly, surprising even himself. “You are going to make it to your 17th birthday, _by thunder_.”

A sharp intake of breath was his reply.

“That sounds like a threat,” said Jim weakly.

Strickler hummed noncommittally.

Would Strickler ever fully regain Jim’s trust? To be honest, probably not. Would Strickler do everything in his power to ensure their working relationship at least was good enough for Jim to survive? _Yes._

“Perhaps it is, Young Atlas.”

They had a lot of work to do.

 

8.

Stricklander let himself out of the Nuñez house quietly. The others would want to make sure Claire was alright, and maybe even find out some of what her new abilities could do. Personally, Stricklander was just exhausted. Mentally and _emotionally_.

Meeting his Lady Creator herself… Her revolting, _intoxicating_ promises spoken in Barbara’s sweet, familiar voice… The terror that he had sent Jim to his death… The despair that he would have to kill another student to halt the spread of Morgana’s rot… And thrumming below it all, the pulsating darkness of the staff itself, radiating contempt at being wielded by its Mistress’ lowly servant.

Stricklander just wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep.

So naturally he heard the door behind him swing open and running footsteps chase him down the driveway.

“Hey, Strickler, wait!”

See, that was the problem. A _bit_ of pleasing wasn’t bad.

Strickler took a deep breath, shut his eyes for a moment, plastered a calm smile on his face, and turned around to face the Trollhunter.

“Yes?”

“I, uh, I just wanted to say,” began Jim as he caught up with Strickler. “Back there with Claire, I know, uh…”

Back there with Claire, Strickler had been about to do what he had to do. The fact that all three teenagers had gotten out was a _miracle_. Galadrigal could shoot him smug looks all he wanted, but ten more seconds of Morgana unleashed and the whole house would have been brought down like it was made of playing cards. No, Strickler wasn’t going to apologise for that.

And yet here he stood, halting when the Trollhunter asked him to instead of ignoring the shout and walking home to get some well-deserved rest. His fingers curled tight around the briefcase; he braced himself. The smile melted from his lips. A _bit_ of pleasing wasn't bad — but you weren't supposed to _mean_ _it_.

When exactly had he and Jim exchanged roles in this farce?

“So, Young Atlas, are you planning to take the role of judge, jury, and executioner on your shoulders as well?” asked Strickler quietly.

“What?” said Jim, perplexed. “What are you talking about? I just wanted to say thank you.”

Strickler blinked.

“I know you’re only really here for my mom,” the boy continued, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “And I know working with Blinky isn’t always the — ”

“What do you mean I’m only here for your mother?”

The boy had gone a curious shade of pink. His hands twitched, rather like he wished he had some dishes to wash so he could escape this conversation. He didn’t meet the Changeling's eyes.

“After you took the Gravesand, you, uh, kinda straight up told me, man. You only came back to protect her. So, you know, it's — ”

“And you _believed_ me?! After I told you it brought out a crueller side of us, _and_ after I told you it really shouldn't be eaten, you still believed me?”

“Uh… you were very convincing?”

Strickler stared at Jim in dismay.

As a Changeling, ‘friendly’ relationships between two people had always been a struggle for dominance. Unless you were actively trying to kill each other, either someone was crawling for you, or you were the one crawling. (It was different with Barbara of course, but while Barbara had known _who_ he was better than most, she had had no idea _what_ he was. Humans did things differently to trolls.)

And he knew it wouldn’t be quite like that with Jim — the boy was just too damn nice for it — but he also knew that if he had been in troll form when Jim called him, he’d have pressed his ears down, flat against his head: penitent, _submissive_.

He’d assumed he and the Trollhunter had switched places in who was eager to please. He hadn’t actually realised it was possible for them to _both_ be eager. But that was the thing about Jim, wasn’t it?

“Young Atlas…” said Strickler and sighed. “Of course I didn’t just come back for your mother. Barbara… she makes me want to become a better person. But _you’re_ the one who shows me the steps to doing so.”

“Oh.”

Jim’s voice was very quiet.

Wonderful, now they both couldn’t look each other in the face. At least the night air was warm. Somewhere in the distance he could hear crickets. Jim coughed.

“Well then… do you wanna come back to the house? We’re gonna watch _The Exorcist_. Claire wants to know how her possession compares to one of the greatest horror movies of all time (her words).”

That actually startled a laugh out of Strickler. Human children were the strangest creatures he’d ever met. And to Strickler’s immense surprise, Jim stood a little bit straighter now, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“No, thank you,” Strickler said. “One exorcism per day is quite enough for me.”

“Yeah, I get it. But I’ll see you this Saturday for training?”

“‘Till then, Young Atlas. Good night!”

His own back felt straighter as he walked home too.

 

9.

Metallic noises emanated from the kitchen, quiet clanging and chomping. Strickler wasn't the only one up looking for an afternoon snack then.

“Jim?” he called quietly through the doorway.

Predictably, his response was a growl. It cut off abruptly, as though Jim had reminded his troll side that you weren't supposed to growl at guests. Strickler made sure his ears were lowered and his wings pressed tight to his back before he went into the kitchen.

Despite the fact that they had defeated Gunmar _and_ Morgana several hours ago, Jim was still in his armour. Strickler pressed his ears down further. Barbara should be back from the hospital soon; Jim had hurried home to pack and Strickler had joined him, ostensibly to make sure he didn’t overstrain his injuries in the process. Maybe he should have left it to Tobias. The boy’s eyes — so strange and yet so familiar — followed him carefully. But he didn’t resume his growling.

“You don’t have to do that,” said Jim. “Make yourself smaller, I mean. I didn’t really get it… before. I do now. But I promise, even my troll side trusts you.”

Strickler chose his words delicately.

“I’m not actually sure that’s true. There’s no shame in it, Young Atlas — and I’m not offended. Troll instincts may take a while to master. Perhaps it would be easier if I left your house for a while, so you could finally drop the armour?”

Jim blinked at him, then, wide-eyed, considered his gauntleted hands.

“You think… you really think I can get out of it?” he asked, his voice jangling with excitement and painful hope.

Strickler’s chest ached at the sound of it. He wished wildly that he hadn’t stopped Barbara from whacking Merlin with a broom. He’d been scared for her, in case the old man turned to wrath. Hearing Jim’s anxious voice now, maybe any amount of wizardly anger would have been worth it.

“I don’t see why not,” he managed to say, far more calmly than he felt. “Trolls wear armour just like humans; it doesn’t weld itself onto our spikes. The armour reacts to your emotional state, does it not? Have you tried taking it off since defeating both Gunmar and Morgana?”

The boy had not. Too scared, perhaps, of receiving a definite, negative answer. Or perhaps he genuinely believed Merlin was malicious enough to trap him in a metal can forever. (Honestly, Strickler didn’t put it past the wizard either, but in practical terms it seemed unlikely.)

Strickler went to grab a blanket from the couch just in case, while Jim breathed in and out slowly, calming himself. Then he concentrated.

It turned out the boy’s usual blue vest and jeans did not carry over into his transformation. Strickler threw the blanket at him hastily.

It also turned out the boy’s brilliant grin, though altered by sharp canines and by virtue of being exactly _at_ Strickler’s eye-level now (he’d expected Jim to hit a growth spurt soon, but he hadn’t expected it to happen like _this_ ), did.

When Barbara finally got home, she found the two of them on the couch, huddled under blankets and all notions of packing forgotten, absorbed by the new King Arthur movie and yelling about incorrect swordfighting (Jim) and incorrect everything else (Strickler).

 

10.

Strickler dropped the stack of books on the table with a thump and Jim eyed them warily.

It was the first time the boy was back after leaving for New Jersey, two months after the trolls had first moved. He looked much better than when they’d last seen him: more confident in his movements and size and out of that goddamn armour. Instead he wore cargo shorts and a dark green hoodie that only clashed slightly with his skin — perhaps not the most stylish clothing but it was difficult to find nice things in their size, as Strickler well knew.

They were all hoping Jim and Claire could visit more often, now that things were settling down in their new home. The Gyre really was an incredibly useful device. Perhaps in a couple weeks, he, Barbara, Tobias, and the Nuñez family should visit the new Heartstone instead. It would be good to see such a wonder under better circumstances than last time.

“So, Young Atlas, I do suggest you stick to my reading schedule,” said Strickler without preamble. “I know it can be tempting to just cram everything at the end, but I really do think  — ”

“Wait… what schedule?”

Jim’s eyes darted from the books, to Strickler’s face, to Barbara. She was leaning back on the countertop and smiling fondly at the two of them. Strickler crossed his arms over his chest.

“For AP World History? Or do you expect Claire to be content with dating a high school dropout?”

“For… But I can’t graduate. You know that.”

There was naked longing in the boy’s voice. (Maybe all teenagers should be manipulated into transforming into half-trolls, the teacher part of Strickler thought idly; it certainly made them appreciate the idea of education more.)

“James Lake Jr,” he said crisply. “I was a teacher and then principal at the local high school for over a decade. More importantly, I was one of the heads of an international spy organisation for several _centuries_. I can’t promise I can get you into Harvard, but I can at least help my star student graduate high school.”

Jim stared at him.

Strickler hadn’t learnt the intricacies of the expressions on his new face yet. But he hoped it was a good sort of staring. Jim had saved them all — he’d saved _him_. He’d changed the selfish, petty bastard Stricklander into just plain Strickler, who maybe even deserved to stay with the wonderful woman at his side for as long as she’d keep him. So Strickler had worked hard the past two months to do what he could to make Jim’s own change into something more positive too. He hoped it’d work.

“Now,” he continued. “I think it’ll be easier to do the work in blocs. I’ve worked out a lesson plan for AP World History, and AP European and US History too. The lesson plan for mathematics should be next, but Miss Janeth is restructuring the trigonometry section, so start with those for now.”

“We know it’s not the same as being with your friends in school, honey,” Barbara put in softly. “But Walter hopes that it’ll help you remember that not everything you were working for before is over. And also a high school diploma is a good thing to have regardless,” she added practically.

Both Strickler and Barbara waited in patient silence while Jim swallowed hard several times.

“Yeah, it’s…” his voice cracked. “It’s not the same as graduating with my class.” Before Strickler’s heart could sink too low, he continued. “But I guess at least I’m graduating with my favourite teacher.”

And the hug he swept Strickler in made the Changeling’s ribs creak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this whole fic a ploy just to get Strickler and Jim to watch Treasure Planet? MAYHAPS.
> 
> If you have a minute, I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
